About Me

I'm a peace-loving married Indian male on the right side of '50 with
college-going children, and presently employed under government.
Educationally I've a master's degree in History, and another in Computer
Application. Besides, I've a post graduate diploma in Management. My
published works are:- (1)"In Harness", ISBN 81-8157-183-5, a poetry
collections and (2) "The Remix of Orchid", ISBN 978-81-7525-729-0, a
short story collections with a foreword by Mr. Ruskin Bond, (3)
"Virasat", ISBN 978-81-7525-982-9, again a short story collection but in
Hindi, (4) "Ek Saal Baad," ISBN 978-81-906496-8-1, my second Story
Collection in Hindi.

Friday, June 13, 2014

The Epistle

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A couple of days ago, while browsing my facebook page, I bumped into a poem shared by a friend. It was a poem in Odiya and it gave a different perspective of letter writing that I liked. It had touched the change in the preference of the people of modern age to communicate texts rather than feelings and exhorts all to forget the snail mail. How painful! The poet also tries to explore the reason why people no longer write letters these days. People may love old letters to read and feel nostalgic about the moments that have passed them by; they may love to receive letters from their near and dear ones soaked in love and affection; yet writing may not be always spontaneous. Sometimes a letter may be the one that comes to us as an object of victory over laziness, alibis and so forth. Here the poet has his excuse: the lack of words. Really! Such a poverty is enervating and in its most debilitating form it constitutes a writer's block. I've the permission of the poet Prakash Mohapatra to translate it. Here are its English and Hindi renderings.

Saturday, June 07, 2014

From Rohtang to Manikaran: Blow Cold n Blow Hot

From Rohtang to Manikaran : Blow Cold n Blow Hot

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At the First Blush of Sun

Lord
Shiva lives in Himalayas. So, here follows the big logic: a visit to
the Himalayas would endow us with a Shiva-like insight, the Himalayan wisdom. Aha! Come
summer vacation of children, the schools are closed and leaves are granted, and we the liberated souls--all rush to
Manali…and then, much before the early bird has begun to grub out its worm, and even before the first blush of the sun is seen on the distant peaks, we’re
on our way to Rohtang Pass. If not the Mt. Everest, it must be Rohtang Pass,
at least. Result: there forms a serpentine queue on the Manali-Leh Highway, nay, a maddening melee rather, and we’re just there to elongate it. Before we realise, a queue is formed, long enough to cover the entire switchback from top to bottom with no room to overtake, no liberty to choose the pace, no idea how to reverse.... Glued to our
seats inside our almost stationary cars desperate to acquire the rationed
asphalt of a few inches ahead, the adventurous we, the inspired seekers of
Shiva-insight, have to wait for our turns to move ahead. It is a snail’s speed,
to use an oft-repeated simile.

That was
the picture, nay, the big picture.

Aha! How
funny it is to imagine Lord Shiva moving about the great mountain range from
peak to peak by the help of a bull! From Zanskar to Pir Panjal and then to
Dhauladhar and then to small tibbas and joths of Shivalik, he has
only a bull to take him around! It must be a special bull, I say. It must be
more powerful than these Innovas and Marutis and Taveras and Mahindras and
Traxs’ and Travellers that try to trundle up….

The Petrol-guzzling Crabs Crawling to the Summit

Well,
Shiva’s bull could be powerful. There’s no issue, for it’s the divine bull. But
the question is should we, with the help of our Innovas and Marutis and stuff perform
the wanderings that Lord Shiva did in his wisdom? Then, should we smoke Ganja
because He’s fond of that? And call it a recreational drug? Again, if so,
shouldn’t we swallow poison, too, to save the universe like Lord Shiva once
did? Why don’t we agree that everyone cannot be a Shiva, the wanderer of the
Himalayas? It's a sheer travesty of common sense I say!

Joking
apart, a trip to Rohtang was a must—we decided. Agreed, we’re small creatures,
nothing compared to Lord Shiva nor our cars anywhere near His celebrated bull, and yet a trip to
Rohtang Pass was something we needed. Aha! Badly needed! No compromise on that.
It was for enhancing our spiritual insights, something different from worldly wisdom. Don’t they say great people must go
to great places? So we decided to visit a great place. That’s all about the
logic. And anything less than that was not to be tolerated. It would be below
dignity. In order to beat the crowd, let’s start at four a.m.—that was an
ungodly hour yet our unanimous decision. We the seekers of God chose an ungodly hour to step out. So early! Aha! We ought to be the
early birds, super duper early birds. There were no worms to catch, yet we the
early birds would get some photographs of the snow-peaked mountains at the first
blush of the sun, of a resplendent golden peak. As for me, I took a snap but I
could not do it a minute too soon from the running car. So, what I gathered
was, let me put it like this, the second best.

Vyas Kund: Nobody Need Feel Let Down not Having Seen it.

We had a
few days of snowfall on Rohtang Pass immediately preceding our trip. It was the
beginning of June—no time to snow even on the hilltops. The weather forecast
for the day was good but that was applicable to Manali only. Nothing could so
certainly be said of the conditions prevailing at high altitude. Anyhow we moved
on, for the proverbial well-begun phase was over and what lay ahead was only
the other half of the job, the happier half: we looked forward to it.

We
reached Gulaba. There were cars ahead of us and there were many following. And
we moved on. The wind was violent, cold and scarily swishy. The trees we saw
through our window were restless, shaking from side to side in violent swings. As
we went ahead just beyond the cedars and chinars, the wind became colder and
gustier. It was there, as it were, to warn us—how dare you break the
tranquility here! How dare you pollute the oxygen-thin air of the Himalayas! Don’t
you know it’s the land of Lord Shiva? You’ve come all this way to the sacred land even
without having a bath! Shame on you, you the sinners of the low land, shame on you!

And then
there were wind and more wind, and all the cold and biting and swishing winds
of the Himalayas blowing from all directions. Somehow we moved on. Soon Beas
Nala was in sight. We should at least reach up to that—that was the resolve. If
not Beas Kund atop Rohtang Pass, Beas Nala would do. Beyond that it would be
risk…and that was the silent warning from inner instincts. Don’t they say
discretion is the better part of valour? Now the option was crystal clear…to
everybody without exception. And we left our vehicles to allow them to reverse and get ready
to double back.

Until they were ready, we had some time at our disposal. So we
could do something for the experience’s sake. Having come all this distance, we
could loiter a while: it was the minimum we ought to do to claim the distinction
of being the blessed Himalayan travelers. And we moved about—or at least tried
to do that. But then, in order to do that, we needed some more warmth. We
scrambled for some extra clothing. The road-side entrepreneur renting those old
and dirty gowns quoted her price: one hundred bucks for one piece. We agreed,
reluctantly though. And as we moved in the windy landscape, we tottered, unsure
of the direction of our steps, our body refusing to switch on—nay tune in—its
emergency output system that could generate some extra heat. It was like trying
to fry potato on a frying pan with the gas below it turned off. Reluctant steps
ultimately took some of us up to the Nala. Now the bridge was there to cross. Or
else how would we say we had a trip to Rohtang Pass, the abode of Vyas the wise
man? There were already particles of snow dust in the air, all of them flying
from the Pir Panjal ranges to the Rohtang Pass, unhindered and straight into
our nostrils. The cold had, as though, grown a few extra sets of teeth, the
serrated ones that started ruthlessly biting at their favourite spots—the ears
that had welcome pores into which it merrily entered, singing its sibilant whispers,
nay the swishing songs of sadism; the eyes that suddenly shed tears that began
to freeze; the lips that went numb and desiccated. Even our spines cracked,
noses bled, not to speak of those sensitive teeth that did not take the name of
stopping to rattle for the fraction of a second.

Way to Rohtang: On Another Fine Day

So, Rohtang
was an impossible spot to reach—it was a common realization to dawn on our
cold-beaten brains. And we cast our cursory glances around to see at least
something, to invest our hard-earned moments to gather a minimum of recipe for our memory. The
blocks of snow bereft of their white lustre, the rippling waves of Beas Nala,
the sky that promised brightness, maybe, in a little while—none could hold our
inspiration. I began to lose all the warmth of my body all of a sudden…and it was as rapid as a
candy-floss losing its shape. Just ten minutes: and that was the maximum I
could have stayed and not a second more. Let’s double back—as though all of us
were thinking aloud and then the vehicle trundled downhill. As we’re coming
down, we found upcoming vehicles were queuing for a couple of kilometers--or more, maybe--and
the number was still burgeoning. Some brave and inspired tourists, clad in
hired wind-cheaters and sundry overalls, eager to anyhow reach the snow point were
plodding their way against the punishing gust blowing from the dreadful
precipices. There were crying children too, dawdling, unwilling to endorse the
courage of their parents. I pitifully looked at them and felt like offering
them a lift but only in the return directions. Tut-tut! My poor kids—it’s not always a good
idea to be born to the brave parents!

On Way to Rohtang: Another Fine Day

The next
day: it was an episode of heat. Something different, for a change. The scene was Manikaran, its sulphur bathing
pool. Gosh! So hot it was! And let me not forget: it was June. I was literally
searching an appropriate alibi not to take a dip. But then there were many bath
freaks around, giving free lectures on the benefits of a sulphur bath. It’s
good for skin; it’s good for muscle pain; it’s good for backache; it’s good for
digestion…. Hold it! Are they asking me to sip some sulphur water? Eek! No way.
But then, not taking bath would confirm my lack of courage, besides depriving me
of all those benefits the bath was known for.

So
taking a sulphur bath was a must, very much like a stroll in the bone-chilling
cold the previous day. Now, a million-dollar question was how to brave into piping
hot water in a blistering day of June? Hold it, it was not a million-dollar
question; it was a hundred-rupee question only. That I had no bathing trunk was
my alibi and it was just not acceptable. The motivators around me were ready
with their suggestions: Go ahead, man, and buy a swimming trunk. The place is
cluttered with so many shops selling some temporary bath-wear for a hundred
rupees. I avoided spending the amount. Okay, I could take a plunge even wearing
a towel—no issue.

Come August: A Milder Rohtang

Still,
the pool petrified me. I dipped my feet. Oh my God! So hot! It felt like somebody
was bent on punishing me. My skin would singe—it was only a matter of minutes.
I’d look like a plucked chicken then. I’d look white, like a potato peeled up
or a banana skinned down.

A couple
of minutes gone, there was change. A welcome change, I supposed. I did not feel
that water was so unbearably hot—at least that was what a part of my body
saying me, the part that comprised of my toes and shins and knees and feet… I
thought I could do a little extra and lowered my body, little by little. There was
something still inhibiting. First off, I must tackle it. I knew, nay I was
acutely aware that there was a part of my body which needed extra coolness. I was
going to plunge that into the pool of water that could scald. Would it melt
along with the extra fat that was hidden behind the skin? Even in the midst of
the super-hot sulphur pool, my brain led me to something macabre and funny: I might
have read it somewhere. The hangman knows it: before the fellows condemned to
death lose their lives in the gallows, their privates go rigid. This is a
reality, a macabre reality, a shameless eventuality. Sometimes privates behave
autonomously, rebelling against the brain that possesses it, falsifying the
conscience that controls it.

Bubbling Hot Water Before Entering the Pool

I just
lowered my entire body, including the ones that pined for extra coolness… except
my brain. That one, the thinking machine atop my torso, alone needed coolness
and I was only too willing to grant the concession. Rest others should singe,
if it came to that. I just sprinkled some water on my head. That was the final
act. That constituted my hot ablutions.